by Maureen Ash
“I am sure the sheriff is not far behind and will put men both above and below the spot where the oak grows,” the forester said. “Give him a little time to get them into position, then move up. I will go and join them. May God grant you good fortune.”
With these abrupt words the forester turned his horse and within a moment was gone, the rain-darkened flank of his horse disappearing like a wraith into the curtain of mist.
Fulcher, who had finally tumbled from the pony when they halted, knelt motionless on the ground, head hung on his chest and breath coming in great shuddering gulps. He got reluctantly to his feet when Bascot prodded him with his sword. The Templar felt no pity for the man; his whole being was intent on freeing Gianni, on discovering if the boy was safe and well. His mind dare not dwell on the possibility that the lad could be injured or dead and might perhaps be lying deep in Sherwood for the wolves to find. He thought only of the boy as he had last seen him, alive and happy, and concentrated on keeping that image in front of him.
As they neared the tree, Fulcher stumbled forward on his feet, leaving the pony behind. Bascot scanned the forest on the other side of the river as best he could, cursing the loss of half his vision. The oak was dripping moisture onto the sodden mass of fallen leaves at its base; the very air was drenched with wetness. The river itself was in full spate, water rushing in tiny wavelets against the drooping grasses and reeds at its edge as the flow in midstream eddied into small currents that broke and ran before they were fully formed. Bascot knew that the Trent was a river that had a tidal bore which had the capability of becoming frightening at full intensity. When it rose to its peak it was called the Aegir, after a Norse sea giant, and he had been told of the damage it could do. Although the bore usually only swelled to full power in the spring, it had been known to happen after a heavy rainfall, and he prayed that it would not let loose such a monster today, not if he was to get Gianni across from the other side.
When they reached the base of the tree, Fulcher once again fell to his knees, then rolled over onto his side and lay like a man dead. He had not spoken one word throughout the journey, had not seemed interested in his fate then, nor did he now, with closed eyes and scant regard for the water that streamed down upon his bruised and ragged figure. Bascot eased his horse away from the brigand, the better to see around the trunk of the huge tree, and flexed the fingers of his left hand before easing the strap on his shoulder that bore the weight of his shield. Water dripped from the end of the nose guard on his helm, running in streams from the rim of the conical steel cap he wore over his hood of mail. He felt the dampness of moisture that had gathered under his eyepatch and shook his head to free it and his sighted eye from obstruction. His surcoat was wet through, only the padded leather gambeson he wore underneath his hauberk saving his skin from the dankness, and raindrops glistened on the hilt of his sword and the mane of his horse. The animal also shook its head, and emitted a loud snort in protest at the weather, but it made no other movement except for an impatient lift and kick of a hind leg, after which it stood still, seeming as wretched as its surroundings.
For nearly half the part of an hour Bascot stood there, watching and listening. The river was narrow at this point, perhaps thirty or forty yards across, and looked shallow. Bascot thought it was likely to be fordable here, the place having perhaps been used in the past for toll passage and so was the reason it had been called a crossing in the note sent by the brigands who had Gianni. His thought was prompted by the remains of a raft-like construction standing near the river’s edge, a collapsed pile of broken planks from which a short hank of rope, ancient and rotting, lay coiled in the reeds. Nonetheless, traversing the narrow expanse of water might soon prove difficult for, as time passed, the roar of the river grew in magnitude and the rush of the current swifter, as though it was in turmoil. Then, through the growl of angry water, the Templar heard what sounded like a shout and he saw a movement among the trees opposite him.
“Ho! Templar!” The call came from a man standing at the edge of the screen of trees. He was dressed in murky brown and had a bow strung and at the ready in his hands.
Bascot raised his arm to show that he had heard and edged his horse closer to the bank.
“Bring Fulcher over,” the outlaw called to him. “We will give you the boy once our comrade is safe on this side.”
Bascot took his time in answering. Behind the lone man he could discern what seemed to be the shapes of one or two other men, but they were well concealed in the trees and he could not be sure that what he saw was anything more than the blurring of tangled bushes distorted by the screen of rain.
Finally he made an answer. “Where is my servant? I will do nothing until I see him alive and well.”
A few moments of silence passed before there was some stirring in the undergrowth and two figures appeared at the edge of the clear space where the archer stood. Bascot recognised one as Edward, the nephew of the reeve at the village where he had questioned the dairymaid. The other was Gianni, his hands tied in front of him and his arm firmly held in the grasp of the reeve’s nephew. It appeared his feet had been hobbled also, for he stumbled as he came into sight and moved forward with small hesitant steps.
Bascot felt his stomach contract at the sight of the boy. He looked so small and slight beside the bulk of his captor, his head bare, curls a dark wet rumpled mass and eyes peering intently in Bascot’s direction, as though he could send him a message with his mind.
Bascot nodded once, then tugged on the rope that was tied to the brigand lying on the ground. Fulcher groaned and struggled to his feet, then spoke softly.
“Templar, it is not me that Green Jack wants; it is you and the fine ransom you will bring. Do not trust him. Once I am on the other side, he will slit my throat and take you captive. Have a care.”
Bascot looked down at the outlaw. “Green Jack? Is he the leader of these men? The one who sent me the note?”
Fulcher nodded. “It can be no one else. This is his stretch of forest.”
“I do not understand. You say he will kill you. Are you not a compagno to this Green Jack? Why else would he risk such a venture as stealing my servant if he did not value your life?”
Fulcher grinned, his mouth distorted by the lumps and bruises that littered his face. “I do not know how it came about, but I do know that Green Jack values no life but his own. If he lets me live, he knows I will kill him.”
The outlaw gave a slight shrug of his shoulders. “It is of no matter to me, Templar. I will either die here or dangling from a rope by order of the sheriff. I would rather have taken Green Jack to hell with me, but if I do not have his company perhaps the Devil will greet me easier.” He gave a deep sigh. “It is up to you; do as you will.”
Bascot eyed the river. It was a short space across and it looked as though it would not reach the height of his horse’s shoulders at the middle. He could drag Fulcher across by securing him to his saddlebow, but the danger came on the other side, where he would be surrounded by the outlaws he was sure were secreted in the forest behind Gianni and the men on the bank. For all that he was equipped with mail and sword, if there were too many of them, it was likely he would be overcome. If Fulcher spoke true, and he was the target of this whole escapade, then both he and the boy would be at the mercy of this Green Jack, despite any effort of Camville, or his men-at-arms, to save them. For himself, it would be a matter of fighting, but Gianni would be helpless and, if the brigands were attacked by the sheriff’s men, he could easily be killed in the resulting battle.
Bascot looked again at the rotted planks and threadbare rope. The sight reminded him of a day when he had been barely more than a toddler on his father’s fief on the south coast of England. There had been a boat that day too, lying on the shingled beach that was not far from the keep that stood high on the headland, a watching post for invaders from the sea. On the day he remembered, he had been with his father and two older brothers. He had been carried aloft on his father’s s
houlders as they had taken the path down to the beach, but when they had arrived on the shore, he had been placed in the boat and his father had rowed the little craft out a short way into the small bay that curved around the landing place. His two brothers had stood on the strand, watching, their faces alive with merriment. Bascot had not understood their amusement, but recalled how he had joined in their laughter as they watched him being taken out into the midst of the waves that rolled in from the sea.
When they were a short distance from the shore his father had shipped the oars and let the boat drift. He had pulled Bascot up onto his knee and said, “You are a de Marins, Bascot. You come from a long line of ancestors who have fought and earned glory from battles upon the sea. Always our keeps have been within sight and sound of the ocean. It is our protector and, at the same time, our enemy. To be a true son of our line you must live up to our name of de Marins-the mariners-and that means you must learn to be as one with the sea, not only to swim in it, but to feel its strength, learn its comfort and respect its terrors. And there is only one way to do that, my son, and that is to meet it as though in battle, to both conquer it and care for it as though it were your serf.”
With these words, Bascot’s father had thrown him over the side of the boat and into the water. The Templar still remembered the shock of the waves closing over his head, how he had sunk down, his breath involuntarily held as he watched tiny bubbles of air that had been trapped within the folds of his small tunic float to the surface. Then he had tried to breathe and water had flooded into his nostrils, gushed into his mouth as he had opened it in a vain attempt to take in air, and he had felt the saltiness of the water sting the back of his throat and make his stomach heave. Without thought, he had pushed upwards, pumping his legs furiously in a desperate attempt to reach the light shining on the surface above him. When his head broke through, he took great gulps of air, unconsciously working his arms in conjunction with his legs to keep his body afloat.
As his vision had cleared and his breathing steadied he had heard his father’s great booming laughter. “Well done, my son. You are a true de Marins, just like your brothers. Now you have all fought the sea and made her your servant. She is the hardest enemy you will ever fight, but she is also the greatest ally in all of the world, and you are worthy of her.”
After his father had pulled him back into the boat and taken him to join his brothers, Bascot realised that both of them, too, had been subjected to the same treatment. That day he had been proud of himself, and of his family, but in later times he had wondered what his father would have done if he had not been able to swim. Would he have been left to drown, or been saved and then shunned as an outcast?
Bascot looked across at Gianni. He loved the boy like a son. No ordeal was necessary to prove that. Somehow he would get the youngster away from the outlaws and back to the safety of Lincoln castle, even if it cost his own life to do it. He looked once more at the river. Perhaps the trial his father had put him through had not been wasted. At the moment, the river gave the brigands an advantage, but there might be a way that he could use it for his own purposes and so turn the stretch of water, as his father had said, into his ally rather than his foe. A mirthless smile stretched his mouth. How his father would have applauded his notion.
Twenty-three
In the privacy of her chamber Nicolaa De La Haye was engaged in a diversion that was rare for her. She was pacing. Her thoughts far outstripped her feet as she slowly walked from one side of the room to the other, then back again. Not only was her mind on the rescue of the Templar’s servant, but also on her conversation with her son, Richard, the previous evening, as well as the murder of William’s squire and the impending visit of King John.
Perhaps the private speech with Richard was the most disturbing. Although he had assured her that John was in an ebullient mood rooted in joy of his new young bride, Isabelle of Angouleme, her son had warned her that the king was as suspicious as ever of those about him. Constantly he probed for information about his vassals, asking questions that barely veiled his mistrust of their pledge of fealty, and often lapsed into a broody silence that made those about him uneasy.
“Of this meeting with the Scottish monarch he can have no cause for alarm,” Nicolaa had said to her son. “William is completely cowed. He will keep his pledge to pay homage to John.”
“I do not think it is Scotland about which the king frets, Mother, but about his nephew, Arthur. Dead Geoffrey’s son was long a competitor for the crown of England and John still sees the boy as a threat. Anyone foolish enough to voice even a whisper that Arthur should have the crown in John’s stead will soon lose his head, and it would not be parted from his body in a quick manner, either.”
Nicolaa’s steps increased their speed as she continued to walk back and forth. There would be little means to keep the death of Hubert from the king’s knowledge. It had been done in too spectacular a fashion for the news not to be known to all the inhabitants of Lincoln. And with the tale of his death would come the rumour of the boy’s intimacy with a conspiracy that favoured Arthur to take John’s place. Nicolaa had much affection for John, but she knew how suspicious he was. Not even his esteem for her could prevent his viewing not only her husband, but also her brother-by-marriage, de Humez, and perhaps even Gerard’s brother, William, with distrust. And where John distrusted, he destroyed.
Again and again she went over the squire’s murder. The method of the deed was not one she would have attributed to Gerard; a simple sword thrust would have been more in keeping with her husband, and the body left carelessly where it fell. Neither would any of his hired ruffians, like Roget, have acted in a dissimilar way. But she knew how much Gerard hated John. Had he become involved in a plot against the king and Hubert become privy to it? Had her husband ordered the boy despatched to dam up his overflowing mouth?
And her brother-by-marriage, de Humez-was his assurance of innocence in the matter of the boy’s death a truthful one? And his attempt to convince her that he was not involved in any treasonous scheme to supplant John-could she believe him? It was difficult to be completely sure. Even William could be considered suspect; perhaps the boy had overheard something in his lord’s household and had paid the ultimate price for his snooping. And were the murders of Chard and his sons tied to the squire’s death? And if so, how? Had they been privy to the identity of the person who had slain Hubert? Was that the reason that they, in turn, had been killed?
She pondered on the two squires, Alain and Renault. She could see neither of them as murderers. Alain might have given Hubert a terrible beating if he had found him that night, but if either had been intent on killing him, it was more likely to have been done during practice at swordplay, or with a lance. Easy enough to pretend a misjudged stroke had caused his death by accident and both squires were skilled enough at arms to do so. Hubert would have been an easy target if they had been so inclined.
Another thought struck her, just as unpleasant as the last. Could the two squires have left the hall that night with the express purpose of killing Hubert, and were only using the story of his offensive behaviour with Alys as a cover for their real reason for wanting the squire’s death? Was it William, instead of her husband and de Humez, who was involved in a plot against the king and the boys knew it? If that was so, then the two squires, mimicking the barons who had murdered the exasperating Thomas a Becket for King Henry, could have reasoned that they were doing their lord a favour by ridding him of the troublesome squire. Henry had professed that he had not been guilty of ordering his barons to kill the archbishop, but few had believed him. Was it possible William was now caught in a similar snare?
Reluctant to accept such a possibility she pushed her mind away from thoughts of treason and once more ruminated on the manner of the squire’s death. Perhaps the hanging had not been intended as a warning. Could it be possible that, instead, it spoke of a need for revenge? If the desecration by the birds had been intended, then it had certainly slak
ed a need to humiliate the boy in death that the murderer might not have been able to achieve while Hubert lived. Or had it only been made to seem so, and the apparent vengeance was in itself misleading?
She sighed in frustration and paused in her reflections, pouring herself a cup of cider spiced with cinnamon, a beverage she preferred to wine. As she sipped it, she thought that her time would be better spent in sending up a prayer for the safe deliverance of de Marins’s mute servant than in expending her energies in useless speculation. Resolutely she pushed the matter from her mind and set herself instead to work on composing a letter of welcome to be sent to the Scottish king the following morning.
Joanna, Melisande’s daughter, was in her mother’s fine stone house in Lincoln. Melisande was not at home, having left early that morning to attend a meeting of the goldsmith’s guild to discuss plans for presenting a gift to King John on his arrival in the town. The servants, too, were all gone on various tasks for their mistress around the city, except for the young girl who tended the brood of hens caged in the yard at the back of the house.
Joanna peered out of one of the two casements that brought in light to a chamber on the upper storey of the widow’s home. The room served as her mother’s solar and, like the rest of the rooms, was liberally strewn with the expensive tapestries, cushions and furs that Melisande loved. But Joanna had no thought for the comfort that surrounded her. She strode nervously from one window to another, then to a brazier that stood in one corner of the room, heaped with glowing coals, where she warmed her hands with a wringing motion that had more of nervousness in its movement than a wish to bring heat to her cold flesh.
